


Unspoken, Unsaid

by alphonseelrics



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is Understanding, Could be seen as, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, They're Sad Bro, Wing Bleaching?, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphonseelrics/pseuds/alphonseelrics
Summary: He was drowning. It was dark. Dark. So horribly, awfully dark. Filled his lungs and he felt it behind his eyes. He couldn’t escape it even if he tried.Because he couldn’t.





	Unspoken, Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> alright so this was originally a roleplay between a friend and i, hence the POV shifts. i wrote as crowley and her as aziraphale. she don't got ao3 but big shouts to kai! this will hopefully have a chapter two soon where it isn't just Sad. we'll see

If this had been apart of the Great Plan all along, it gave Crowley one more reason to hate the damn thing.

Gorgeous place, heaven. Sparkling white interiors and views that rivaled a rooftop in Paris on a clear evening.

(Trust him, he’s speaking from experience)

Thing is, white is a color that became  _ easily _ stale to Crowley’s eyes and keeping his nose clean was an absolute  _ drag _ . So, it seemed only natural to lean in to the promise of a little bit of fun if it meant taking some risks.

He didn’t know, though, that taking risks meant also meant taking a headfirst dive into scalding sulphur.

Enter who was presently known as Crowley, the infamous, quick-witted demon who’s name was on the tip of everybody’s tongue in Hell. 

Or, alternatively, enter Crowley, the demon who was currently a crumpled heap on his bathroom floor as a shaking hand gripped the half-empty bottle of bleach he found under his sink. 

Over six thousand years of living as one of Satan’s playthings and not once had he looked in the mirror and saw somebody he was proud of. He never asked to be this way, it was never apart of  _ his _ Great Plan. But, that wasn’t anybody’s business but his own. Who could bring themselves to care about somebody such as himself?

It had started when he was drawing a bath. Nothing out of the ordinary. Operating a human body took upkeep, after all. He hadn’t meant to release his wings— the cool air of his bathroom had hit him a beat too quickly, and, before he could control them, black feathers spread from wall to wall. They clouded every corner of his vision and a few fluttered softly to the floor. 

And then he was there again.

The stench of rotting eggs. He was drowning. It was dark. Dark. So horribly, awfully dark. Filled his lungs and he felt it behind his eyes. He couldn’t escape it even if he tried. 

Because he couldn’t. 

This was the life he was stuck with now. From now until the end of time. And maybe even then some. The thought alone made him feel absolutely  _ ill _ . Stuck with these reminders of the life he had so unwillingly chosen built into his very vessel.

So here he was. Half clothed with unfiltered peroxide dripping from his slender fingers as he worked the substance into his feathers. The initial sting of the chemical was increasing in severity and he was visibly shaking, a tear occasionally trailing from the corners of his eyes and caressing his jawline. He worried his lower lip between his teeth clenched them tight in a feeble attempt to ignore the pain. It was a small price to pay if it meant being able to forget for even a  _ sliver _ of time. Anything, anything, anything. 

..

Crowley had always told Aziraphale that he was welcome to, ‘mosey on in without further notice’, however that went against everything Aziraphale felt was the pinnacle of chivalry. He had received a house key from Crowley only a few months prior; however, Aziraphale had yet to use the blasted thing. He would always eagerly knock and was often met with a scowl meant for a presumed telemarketer. A telemarketer disturbing Crowley’s tedious schedule of being, ‘the best demon to crawl out of hell’—or so he called himself. Aziraphale thought Crowley was quite the opposite of the best demon to crawl out of hell, but I wouldn’t dare tell Crowley that he thought his demon side was particularly kind and good hearted. 

Often, Crowley would come to visit him at his bookstore. Aziraphale would be persuading a customer not to buy the third edition of  _ Lorna Doone. _ It was one of his favorite books he had collected over the centuries and he wasn’t about to let another temporary soul mishandle one of his greatest treasures. 

Crowley would often, or so he told Aziraphale, go around spooking customers and miracle-ing cockroaches to crawl out of the pages. Aziraphale often found that Crowley was his best self when he knew no one was looking. This was fuel for Azi to ‘mosey on in’ to Crowley’s uninviting home and see right through him. No performance. No mask. Purely Crowley. 

Aziraphale felt giddy at the thought of him sneaking in. What a crime! He couldn’t wait to show Crowley that he had just walked into his home unannounced! So dreadfully exciting and riveting! 

Despite being given a key and clear permission to walk into his home unannounced, this still felt like such a thrill for the angel. He started to come up with scenarios to scare him. He had never successfully scared Crowley; the scoreboard was surely 1000 to 0, but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from dreaming. 

He quietly jumbled with the keys and placed it in the lock. It was already unlocked? Crowley—So unsafe! He was going to have to give Crowley a stern talking to about safety. He could already feel Crowley’s yellow eyes roll to the back of his head and back at Aziraphale with an amused stare and a slimy grin. Maybe...he would save that lecture for another millennium. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could handle Crowley poking fun at him for caring about his well-being and safety. 

After stepping in unannounced, he felt the uninviting grime and cold dimenor of the place. Aziraphale used to hate the lack of light and colors, however he had grown to love the place. It felt undoubtedly like Crowley. 

Aziraphale quietly greeted the houseplant next to the doorway with a kiss and a small, “You look lovely today, my dear”. He waited for Crowley to come out of the darkness and snap at Aziraphale for giving the plants ‘the wrong idea’. But no sign of him. No sign of anyone.

Maybe Crowley wasn’t home? 

A muffled cry, the aroma of ammonia, and burnt hair subtly crept up on Aziraphale. 

Burnt hair? No, it wasn’t hair. 

He couldn’t quite make out what it was; all he knew was it smelled especially awful. He took his clean handkerchief from his pocket and quietly covered his scrunched up nose. 

His eyes watered a little as he got closer to the source. It seemed to be coming from the bathroom? Did Crowley have someone, or something, in there against its will? Was it in pain? What kind of agenda did Crowley have today? 

Again, another wet cry seeped underneath the bathroom door. It was familiar. Aziraphale’s heart dropped. 

Crowley. 

Aziraphale no longer cared about the excitement of sneaking in or the potential scare he could have gotten out of the demon. His best friend. His hands trembled and felt heavier than normal. What if someone had hurt him?

He apologized to Crowley and God quietly before barging in on him, he would never invade someone’s privacy. However, this felt very different. He was sure God and Crowley would forgive him. 

His jittery hands were able to yank the door open. Aziraphale’s eyes found his best friend’s through the sea of feathers. 

Crowley. 

He looked so ill. His entire face whiter than the bottle of bleach. Aziraphale’s eyes watered up even more, partially the ammonia’s effect but mostly the shock of seeing his best friend in this condition. He let out a cry into his handkerchief and quickly came to Crowley’s aid. 

“Crowley.” It was a quiet cry. The single word that was muttered between them had no ounce of disappointment or disapproval. It was a word of remorse and care. “Oh, my dear.” He could see Crowley’s eyes swell with apologies and pain. 

“I’m here.” 

  
  


..

  
  


It hurt. It hurt to no end and Crowley could not help but get the creeping feeling in the back of his mind that he  _ deserved  _ this. Vile, vile creature he was. Not good. Never nice. So far from holy that even a drop of heaven’s nectar could burn right through to his core. He could have nabbed the holy water Aziraphale had given him that he kept hidden behind a painting and gotten this job done quicker but... no, no, that was no good. 

Through his blurred vision, he wasn’t able to tell whether or not the bleach was actually working. The smell alone was enough to alert him that  _ something _ had to be burning here, and it sure as Hell wasn’t the souls of the damned. 

Filthy, he thought quietly to himself as he poured out another handful into his down. Despicable. He hissed through his teeth, face scrunching up as he felt it seep into his feathers. A few stray drops thudded against the tile softly. Never did like the layout of it much, he exhaled.

When exactly his cries became louder and more frequent, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like he could even hear them over the repeated pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, reminding him of this human vessel he was in. This human body who had carried him so far and wide and here he was sullying it with his selfish desires. Ha. That was good. Of course the demon would be caught acting on such human emotions!

“Pathetic.” He spoke aloud, voice the texture of gravel. His throat burned. His nose burned. His eyes burned. His feathers burned. He was burning. And he felt as if he was falling all over again. A frustrated scream erupted from somewhere deep inside and he pounded his fist against the marble cabinets in front of him. Funny little thing, pride was. One of the Deadly Sins. Nice girl, actually. Crowley had always carried himself like he had so much of it when quite the opposite was true. Terrible angel and an even worse demon. Misplaced. That’s what he was. Lost.

..

If Crowley excelled in anything, it was home security. His home was where he schemed. Brooded. And most importantly, slept. At every single door and window stood a sensor that would alert his cell anytime someone, (or more importantly, some _ thing _ ) was attempting to get in. It never got much use, but the peace of mind was always appreciated. The only other person he would even  _ think _ of letting into his boudoir was Aziraphale. Six thousand years and the angel had never done anything to sway his trust in him. 

Crowley had always had a knack for popping into places unannounced and sometimes unwelcome, so it only seemed fair that he allowed Aziraphale to do the same. Not like his friend had ever used the privilege, though. Far too polite for his own good. 

His phone had long since been abandoned somewhere in his bedroom, so there was no alert on this particular day. Didn’t hear the front door open. Didn’t hear the light footsteps walking cautiously across mahogany floors. Didn’t even hear the bathroom door jiggle before it was too late. 

His pupils dilated to the size of a quarter when he caught his angel’s gaze.

“Fuck—“ he choked out, the word getting trapped in the back of his throat.

Crowley looked down at himself, then. A mess of bleach and feathers sprawled across his restroom floor. Up until this point, Crowley had been so damn careful. So careful to display nothing but his best qualities to Aziraphale. And now that had all just came crashing down.

“Out,” he started softly, another sob wracking his form, “get  _ out _ .” 

Yellow eyes met blue once again and despite the harsh words he looked absolutely pitiful. 

He looked down.

“Please.”

He was never one to say please.

..

Hearing Crowley mutter that word made Aziraphale's whole body lock. It had often been thrown around as a joke between the two of them. An occasional  _ please _ would be dripping with sarcasm or paired with a slimy smile. Crowley had never been too fond of manners. 

But this please was soaked with empathy and sorrow. It was strong, despite coming from a weak mind. The whole room felt heavy and dark. 

Crowley's eyes burned through his with genuine pain. The sickly pigmented skin paired with his yellow shrouded eyes was a jarring sight. Any other demon might have been quite fond of his deathly appearance. 

"You stubborn buffoon,” Aziraphale tightened his grip and swallowed his tears. He tried to act tough for his friend. Crowley had always been the strong one between them. This was new territory for the both of them. 

Aziraphale's mind became a breeding ground of paranoia. Had Crowley felt this way for a while? For how long had he kept something like this locked away? Why didn't he tell his best friend? Were they friends? Had he lied? 

"It seems you don't know me at all, if you think I would allow you to be left alone." He wanted to tell Crowley so much more, but he kept his distance in dialogue. 

Crowley's body language was confusing. It seemed like he desperately wanted the help and comfort, but all of his instincts felt inclined to writhe away like a wounded animal. 

Aziraphale's blue eyes felt fire beneath them. He wanted to be angry at someone. He was angry at himself for not being there for his friend. 

No. This wasn't about him. Never about him. 

His top priority as an angel was always caring for others. Crowley needed him. He had always needed him. Aziraphale had been so blind. 

Aziraphle's hand carefully inched its way onto the neck of the bottle of chemicals. His body movements were quite similar to a human trying not to startle a dangerous animal. Aziraphale forced the bottle back. 

"Crowley, my dear. The bottle. Please let go." He could see Crowley's knuckles reach a new white as his grip tightened on the handle. The demon acted as if this was his only life line. 

Aziraphale's eyes were unable to find Crowley’s, the demon shielding them from his own.

"Your beautiful feathers, my dear. You mustn't do this to yourself." He choked back tears while attempting to convey an unwavering tone. Crowley’s pain was his own. He wanted to be strong for him. He was failing. 

Aziraphale was lost for words. He didn't know what to tell Crowley. Despite knowing each other for more than 6000 years, he had never met this Crowley. He understood nothing about his vulnerably. He didn't understand Crowley's pain. He felt lost. 

..

Somehow, Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be that easy to frighten off. Usually the angel was always accommodating to whatever requests he had, but this was different. This was a side of himself Aziraphale had never had the misfortune of getting to know. For a moment, he almost felt guilty. No. He most definitely felt guilty. Like the child with his chubby fingers wiggling around in a biscuit jar (though, that was much more Aziraphale’s sort of crime).

But why guilt?

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that never once had Crowley confided in his friend. Scratch that— best friend. And wasn’t that what best friends were around for? To uplift you no matter what? To pick apart the darkest parts of yourself and help you to cope?

But what was he meant to do when Crowley was nothing  _ but _ dark?

As Aziraphale moved towards him, he didn’t flinch. His grip on the bottle was a subconscious vice and he barely registered the fact that the other was trying to take it away from him. With a shaking inhale, he hunched his body forward until his gaze met the bleach soaked tile.

“Let—“ he gulped, “let me do this—!” 

And then he was sobbing harder than he had before. Visibly trembling. His jaw was clenched tightly and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to meet Aziraphale’s sympathetic gaze.

When he felt the bottle leave his grasp, he felt like all hope was lost. Back at square one. 

“Please— you don’t,” he pressed the palm of his hand into his eye in a pathetic attempt to stop the tears from flowing. It burned. But so did everything, “you don’t understand,”

Because he didn’t. There was absolutely no way Aziraphale could understand what the demon was going through in this very moment. 

“Nobody does.”

He can still remember everything in stark vivid detail, as the fall was often the guest of honor in his recurring nightmares. Nothing but black and a scorching embrace that felt like it was filling every single cell with white hot rage.

Even remembering it was enough to make him yell out in frustration once again. He knew that Aziraphale just wanted what was best for his well being, but what if what was best wasn’t what he needed? 

Crowley felt like a baby bird. Wet and shaking vulnerable and absolutely clueless. The combination of bleach with the cool bathroom air was enough to make him shiver and an unpleasant mixture of snot and tears muddled his face. Guess this is what it must feel like to be Hastur, he thought.

There was nothing he could do now. He lost.

His chest heaved. He’d been caught. 

He let Aziraphale’s gaze stare holes into his lithe form.

..

  
  


"Oh, Crowley. You were always so dramatic." Aziraphale meant this tone to lighten the mood, but instead poured out of his mouth as pity. He regretted the tone, but it was too late. He watched as Crowley tensed up at the words.

After loosening the white knuckle grip on the bottle, the angel managed to set it out of arm's reach. He set it off to the side without leaving his spot next to his demon in shambles. 

With two hands now at his disposal, he clutched his handkerchief and slid his other hand to caress Crowley's hidden tear-stained cheek. Crowley was still relentlessly hiding away his vulnerability as best he could. His eyes covered with his bleach stained hands. 

"My dear..." 

His comforting touch might have been enough for Crowley to drop his hands from his face. It might have been exhaustion. Aziraphale would have liked to believe it was trust. There was still a lack of eye contact, but it was progress.

He slowly took his handkerchief and Crowley's hands one at a time. Quietly, he began to wipe away the bleach. It was a tedious action, but he wanted to let Crowley know that he was there to put him back together again—even if it was one hand at a time. 

The air was thin and sharp between them. Crowley's whimpers and muttering words filled the small room up against the bathroom walls. The room reeked of ammonia and burning feathers. It was enough to gag. 

Aziraphale let Crowley come to terms with the fact that his vulnerability was shared. His vulnerability was heard and accepted. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to hold him and allow him to soak up all of the love an angel came to harbor. But he understood that wasn't how Crowley worked. Instead, he settled to continue wiping the peroxide away. The smallest amount of physical contact. Crowley's tears would occasionally crawl down his gaunt face and then continue on to visit Aziraphale's soft, nurturing hands. 

"If you were hurting," He paused. He swallowed another sob. "why did you not confide in me?" Aziraphale bit down on his lip to muffle the waver in his voice. 

  
  


..

He’d never considered himself an affectionate person. His circle of acquaintances was small. Wasn’t even sure it could be considered a circle— more of a thinly curved line. But, on the largest segment of said line, stood Aziraphale.

There were even fewer people he trusted. Nope. Scratch that. There was exactly one person he trusted. Can you guess his name?

Aziraphale.

And while Crowley was  _ well _ aware his angelic compadre through time would never even  _ think _ of poking fun at him, he was scared. A demon, scared of what an angel had to say. It was laughable. But nothing terrified him more than losing the person he cared for most, especially due to his own selfish pity. What a funny thing, he thought, to despise being pitied but looking in on himself with such sadness.

He’d always been so strong. For the both of them. For himself. For everyone. He wasn’t sure when it started to become too much, but it did. 

That is precisely what landed him here.

The gentle touch to his face made him jump before he leaned into it. His body was aching from head to toe with a mix of pain and exhaustion. Everything around him was a blurred mix of colors and shapes; whether that was from the tears or the sheer amount of ammonia he’d inhaled he did not know. He could make out Aziraphale’s face well enough, though. From the corners of his eyes he saw a pained expression struggling to keep it together. And his heart sank even further than it had before. 

Crowley was no longer just hurting himself.

He turned Aziraphale’s question over and over in his mind like it was a particularly smooth rock he found along St. James. He traced patterns onto his thigh and allowed himself to cry a little more, feeling the tears dissolve into a well loved handkerchief before they could kiss his cheeks.

The silence wasn’t so much as uncomfortable as it was thick. Mugged his head up too much. If he let it linger any longer he knew his mind would travel to dangerous places yet again.

“Idiot—” he spoke suddenly, holding his palms out limply while Aziraphale groomed him, “I’ve always been a stubborn idiot, yeah?”

Just as he managed the smallest pained grin, another sob slipped out. 

“Never deserved this. Never deserved—“ Crowley paused to tilt his head up ever so slightly,

“You.”

  
  


..

Aziraphale’s thoughts bled into one incoherent stream; all scattered with no direction. 

Crowley had just cut through the thick air with his hesitant words. The air started to melt and shift between them. He wasn't worthy? 

Aziraphale's lips seemed to be zipped together. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes swelled with empathy. He didn't care that the room reeked of burning chemicals, it felt like a hint of roses and fresh air on the mind. 

“You are more of a fool than I thought if you believe that.” His words were similar to a whisper; as if he was certain he only wanted Crowley to hear. They were soft spoken. The kind of soft you cling to as a kid. A security blanket that never leaves your side. 

“You really mustn't leave your door unlocked, Crowley. It is very much your fault that I am here.” He cracked another smile between them, despite tears rolling down his rosy cheeks. Aziraphale liked to imagine him being Crowley’s guardian angel. The thought of a demon having a watchful angel by their side was absurd; but Crowley was so much more than an evil entity. 

The complexity inside of Crowley was unmatched. There were soft strings in his heart. Aziraphale occasionally would pluck one. For blissfully brief moments, the angel could see Crowley accepting more of himself. It was particularly hard watching it dissipate in only a matter of seconds, and retract back into Crowley's hard demeanor.

“You have made such a mess.” Aziraphale repeated that phrase from a time that Crowley had witnessed the angel weeping. Crowley had called him a baby. Aziraphale's reasoning was most certainly not as deeply rooted as this was. If he recalled correctly, it was over finding out his favorite dessert at the nearest cafe, kiddy corner to the bookstore, had been discontinued permanently. He was certain Crowley would understand the reference. 

Aziraphale was often crying over small inconveniences. He was never a man that felt the need to hide. It might have been too much show-and-tell, but they were both two dramatic creatures. 6000 years is enough time to really master the art of being dramatic. 

Aziraphale wiped off his cheeks with a brand new handkerchief. He had miracle-d his jacket pocket to supply an endless amount. He thought this was brilliant. Crowley, not so much. 

So much had happened in the past few minutes, yet he still didn't quite know why Crowley had gone through with such an impulsive decision. It struck him that he was still so completely lost. He wanted to calm the demon down, but he also knew this might be one of the last opportunities to understand a new side of Crowley. 

His handkerchief left Crowley’s hands and decided to gently revisit his cheeks. He felt Crowley's dreadfully cold skin underneath his soft fingertips. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe away the remaining tears. He had never been this physically close to his friend before. He had never seen so far into his broken soul. 

"Tell me." Aziraphale watched Crowley's eyes soften and turn to yellow mush. He watched an unknown man crumble in his hands. This was Crowley. 

It's wonderful to finally meet you.

..

Crowley could feel the hesitance in every action Aziraphale carried out and he was surprisingly grateful. It was a rare occurrence that someone was careful with him. Crowley was never one that people seemed to like playing nice with. He felt like a well used hacky sack.

While his sobs had now been reduced to a cacophony of whimpers accompanied by a steady flow of tears, he finally brought himself to actually  _ look _ at the man beside him. The angel’s cheeks were blotchy red and he watched the light reflect off the tear trails that adorned his jaw. Seeing Aziraphale cry was no stranger of an occurrence. He’d seen the other burst into a sob upon finding out that a member of his Charles Dickens collection had been purchased. Watched him shed a tear when he found out Crowley had cleaned out the pint of ice cream he was saving for a rainy day. But seeing him cry over something as serious as this struck a new type of sadness into him.

The passing reference made Crowley crack a weakened grin once again. Aziraphale knew him well. He never did like the tenseness a weighty situation brought. Always preferred to lighten up even the gloomiest of moments with a bit of humor, whether it went appreciated or not. He cleared his throat before he spoke.

“Never thought you’d actually get the balls to use that key. Nearly forgot I gave it to you,” he closed his eyes for a brief second as his friend brushed the handkerchief over his face. The fabric was soft. Everything about Aziraphale was.

The dull sting wracking his wings was washing over him in waves. One moment it was bearable and the next it was painful enough to make every muscle in his back tighten. Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw a few of his feathers had gradually faded into a light brown. Others were an orange ombré. Some he didn’t get to. Either way, he was a mess both mentally and physically and it certainly showed now.

“I didn’t want this—” he surprised himself with the sudden courage to speak again, “any of it. I was like you. So beautiful. Might even be brash enough to say  _ kind _ . All brimming with light and what not,” he paused to wipe some snot away on the back of his hand (which still absolutely stunk), “n’ now look at me. Fell from Heaven and now hated in Hell. Just wish I could forget it all.”

He was crying again. Fuck.

“Living with these damned things,” he picks up a handful of feathers and throws them against the cabinet for dramatic effect, “seeing them pop out at all the wrong times. I can’t stand it. I’ll just be going about, whatever, and then—“ his nails dug crescents into the meat of his arm, “I don’t want to be like this anymore. I can’t be like this anymore, Aziraphale. I hate myself more than a primary school boy and there is absolutely  _ nothing  _ I can do about it.”

  
  


..

Aziraphale watched the man before him spill millennium-old confessions. He watched Crowley's lanky body deflate like a balloon while he breathed out heavy secrets. It must have been a bittersweet feeling. The feeling of sharing the weight, but also the overwhelming sadness that was brought to light for all to see. 

Aziraphale felt his heart crumble. Crowley had never shown his distaste in himself like this before. Maybe in the small things along the years, but the angel was never too keen with those sorts of hints. 

Crowley's body started to shutter again and he began crying once more. Aziraphale's empathy got the best of him and now they both were sharing ugly tears. The angel tried hard to quiet himself so he could hear the other's bleeding heart.

Sure, Crowley had given him the key to his home a few months ago; but this was an entirely new key. Aziraphale was able to step inside a part of Crowley's heart he had never been before. He treasured this dark place. 

"You will never be what you see in yourself, my dear." Aziraphale took in every detail of Crowley's wings. There were still stark black feathers left untouched; others were unfortunate enough to bleed their color into a horrendous orange. A few had gone an ashy pale. Aziraphale took in everything that Crowley was in front of him with a hot flare of remorse and shame in himself for being so emotionally absent for the fallen angel. 

"Those demons. Are not like you Crowley. They never will be." His eyes were puddles- he felt everything for Crowley. "The different singularity between us lies only in color. Not the heart." His head was spinning and his heart felt as if it would implode without further notice. He felt himself hold a new seriousness. "Your—", he hesitated, "your heart is beautiful." He waited for Crowley to roll his eyes at his words dripping in cheesiness, but it never came. 

He loved Crowley, he had always loved Crowley with a love instilled in every angel—a love for all living things. But he felt this was a new uncharted feeling of love and care—far beyond his evangelical instincts. 

He picked up a lone feather off the bathroom tile. He ran his fingers across it as if it was his most prized possession. He let his fingertips softly smooth out the ruffled edges. Repeatedly turning it over in his hand; taking in all the details. 

"I love your wings for what they are. You might have fallen, but you've always been the same person, my dear. You see, your wings are the same ones that carried you through Her kingdom. They’re the same encapsulating pages, just a different cover. Still just as divine as the last." 

He wanted to hold Crowley. Let the demon's frame rattle with sobs into his shoulder. He was never good with comforting through words. He was trying, ever so hard to find the right thing to say. It had yet to come to him, and he was unsure if it ever would. He just hoped Crowley understood how important he was. He was certain that every book in his infinite collection would never amount to the value of Crowley's company. 

..

Every word Aziraphale spoke into existence were ones Crowley could feel himself swelling with. It was an odd feeling, really, to slowly accept the comfort he was being showered with. It was no easy feat, don’t get him wrong, to allow himself to bask in such kind words. Up until this point, Crowley spat venom back at every attempt Aziraphale had made to show him how clean his heart really was. His reason had always been that, if he was to live as a demon, he would try to be the best damn one out there.

As seen by his current situation, he was so incredibly, terribly, horribly far from achieving said goal.

He watched lazily as Aziraphale plucked a feather off the ground while he spoke. The visual brought his mind back to some place he had nearly forgotten.

The Garden of Eden. Dawn of time. An angel could be found perched behind a demon, preening said demon’s wings with deft hands. Crawly, as he was known then, had mentioned in passing that a twig had wormed its way into his down. Without hesitation, Aziraphale was combing through a thick sea of inky feathers.

So kind, he can recall thinking then.

The situation could be compared to the one they were currently in. Aziraphale was preening him. Except, this time, emotionally.

Through the entirety of his existence, there had been one constant. And it just happened to have a knack for tartan.

“You’ve always been too good to me, angel,” he watched a tear slip down onto the floor to mingle with a puddle of bleach, “all pretty metaphors and kind words.”

He reached down to worry the hem of Aziraphale’s coat between his fingers. There would be a bleach stain on it later, he realized with an afterthought.

“Always baffled me as to how you were always so nice. Course, you’re an angel and all, but to  _ me _ ?” An airy chuckle escaped him. “I’m a bloody demon for somebody’s sake! Could’ve smited me millenniums ago and earned a big ol’ gold star upstairs,” he searched Aziraphale’s face, “but you never did.”

Another sniff. Another dab at his gaunt cheeks as the other wiped a tear away.

“And now you’re here, telling me the sweetest white lies. Bet an angel gets in a lot of trouble if those start to add up, yeah?”

Somewhere, deep in a part of himself even Crowley had no idea how to access, he knew the man next to him wasn’t lying. 

It was just too scary to believe him.

  
  


..

“Same goes for yourself, dear boy. I am just as much a target as you are upstairs. I do believe you should gain more recognition than I. A demon ignoring a twisted path in the name of companionship with a silly fool like me.” He could feel his face twisting up into a overly-loving expression. The exact one Crowley would often gawk at until Aziraphale tucked it away for a simple giddy grin. This time he didn't tuck it away. This time he felt the love was shared between them. He could feel his face radiating. 

He often found Crowley’s sly comments to be quite an inconvenience, at times. The demon was always so keen and exceptionally talented at sarcasm. Aziraphale tried his hardest to keep up with the sarcastic remarks; even after all this time he was still learning. However, in this moment, he was quite proud that Crowley’s slick comments were once again rolling off the tongue.

“The only lie that you will ever hear me utter is that I enjoy your driving from time to time. Possibly even, if you were to ask me if your way of walking was quite peculiar.” His rosy cheeks begged him to stop smiling for a moment. They ached quite a bit from the love emitting from the angel’s enormous heart. If Crowley wasn't careful he might hurt himself and catch a sickening amount of ‘love’ or ‘compassion’. 

Aziraphale’s smile finally quieted and he let his eyes visit the mess of feathers attached to his mess of a best friend. Aziraphale quietly inhaled and considered the plan of action. “Crowley?” He waited for a pair of sharp eyes to meet his own. “There's no way in heaven I'm allowing your beautiful feathers to continue soaking in this filth. How do you suppose we clean you up?” 

Aziraphale could always just bless them back to full health; however, he felt this process was part of Crowley’s moment. He knew Crowley needed to heal from this vulnerable state. 

Simply waving his hands over the damaged wings and yelling ‘ta-da!’, wasn't exactly the mood of this whole endeavor. 

  
  


..

“Guess we’re just two of the biggest idiots walking the afterlife, then. Maybe that’s why I chose you as my honorary drinking partner. You were the only one stupid enough to put up with me.” The mood was lifting. His breaths started to even out.

He was just exaggerating, obviously. It is important to note that Crowley looked at Aziraphale with nothing but respect. The angel was hands down one of the cleverest people he knew, hence why he was shocked Aziraphale seemed to adore his company this much.

Adore. Was that the right word for it?

He supposed so. It was close enough, at least. A little intimate, yes, but that is how he’d describe it. The pair always seemed to bring out the best in one another. They were happiest together. Some described them as a ‘power couple’.

Not that Crowley was able to admit that to himself yet, though. A few more layers of emotional trauma still stood between him and that part of his heart.

“Oh, shut it. You love my driving! You’re just too soft for it,” he chuckled once more before scanning over Aziraphale’s face. There was that tell tale smile. The one thing that always let him know things were alright for now. Presently, in the moment, Aziraphale had him. He leaned into the feeling of being cared for. Just this once, he mused to himself, just this once.

While the climax of his meltdown had since passed, that didn’t necessarily negate the fact that he had poured unfiltered bleach onto his wings. The smell lingered heavy in the air and though he had gotten a bit used to the sting, he knew it would catch up to him soon enough. 

“I think that might be a pretty good idea,” he huffed, stretching his feathers out carefully and wincing at the ache, “I look worse than Beezlebub themself. Plop a few flies ‘round here and I could be their twin.”

  
  


..

Aziraphale had never experienced a moment like this with Crowley. Even dating back to the creation of man, there had never been such an intimate moment between the two. Centuries filled with memories and quarrels, yet nothing had ever come close to this. 

He had no idea if Crowley had another level of vulnerability, or if he had just discovered a national treasure. Even if he hadn't, the angel would cherish this moment. He hoped this would open new doors for Crowley to confide in his companion. He wanted to be that for him.

“It's not often that  _ thee _ Anthony J. Crowley agrees with an angel. Keep on with it and the J in your name will stand for judicious.” He was pushing his luck. He wasn't certain when Crowley would build his walls back up, but the angel was going to waste what little time he had left prodding him with love without Crowley’s protests. 

“Alright, let’s clean you up, darling.” He softly smiled at Crowley before reaching over to turn the faucet on. He held his hand underneath the water for a short while until the water cultivated the perfect temperature. After closing up the drain, he turned his attention back to Crowley. Crowley’s eyes quickly turned from a loving gaze to a sharp panic as the slivers of yellow darted away. Crowley’s eyes flew off of the angel and landed across the room. He must have caught the demon off guard. Aziraphale pretended that Crowley had been slick enough to pull away his loving gaze ‘just in time’. He also pretended that Crowley’s cheeks weren't burning a rosy hue. 

“I am aware your place is a barren cave, however is there a sliver of luck you might own a bath towel?” Aziraphale tried hard to keep his mouth from running confessions. He was terrible at keeping secrets. He felt so sinister pretending he didn't see Crowley’s stolen gaze. By the looks of it, his face wasn't exactly the best at keeping them either. 

  
  


..

It was foreign. That much was for sure. Up until this point, their relationship has been built on casual bickering and mutual respect. That was the way they had always organized their so called Arrangement. Familiarity was something they both enjoyed— hence their strong opinions against the Apaconot. But here, now, Crowley tread this new territory without discomfort. He would almost describe it as rather nice. Nice to have someone who could look at your mess and help you clean it up instead of scold you for making it in the first place.

The demon simply rolled his eyes with a small quirk of his lips at the remark and watched Aziraphale turn the faucet with deft hands. Crowley was having a hard time recalling the last time he actually used that bath— it was just  _ so _ much easier to simply will himself clean. Not nearly as luxurious, sure, but he had much more important things to dedicate his unlimited time to. Like scolding house plants. Or dramatically draping himself over the ornate throne located in his office. Important things indeed.

If Crowley had known himself any better, he would have said his heart swelled, then. The image of Aziraphale propped up against the expanse of porcelain, drawing a bath for him,  _ him _ , a look of such understanding fondness clearly readable across his gentle features, was one that made his own soften. His vertical pupils had once again expanded to the size of dimes. 

And then Aziraphale was talking and he quickly snapped his head to anywhere but the angel’s face.

“Right— towel. Yeah. Down the hall n’ to the left. Tiny little closet. Top shelf. Might have a few in there if you’re willing to shake the dust off.”

He could feel his heart beating just a little bit faster. A bit of color was returning to his cheeks, whether from the steam rising off the bath or the tenderness Aziraphale was showing him he did not know.

..

  
  



End file.
